Page 116 of The Artist and the Dragon

But he had. Her whole body seemed to cave in on itself at the realization that he’d done it for her.

Two leathery wings unfurled from his back, rising into the air.

She gasped and took an instinctive step back. Wings? The monsters the others became never had wings.

The beast taking shape was dark as all the rest, but where the others had been hairy, the skin of Malik’s beast was smooth, almost shimmering. The tail was longer; using it, he whipped a chair into a bookshelf, sending its contents spilling to the floor. When he raised his head, his profile was not that of a wolf.

Lord Griffith, who had not moved from his spot a few feet away, stared transfixed. “Impossible.” He adjusted his stance, clawed hands raised. Fangs glinted in his mouth as he roared, “No! It’s not possible!”

Malik had not transformed into a wolf-like beast, a nightmare, a monster.

No, instead, he was a creature of myth and legend. An impossibility, as Lord Griffith had screamed, yet it stood proud before them. The thing Lord Griffith and all his followers aspired, but failed, to become.

Malik was a dragon.

With a roar of fury, Griffith shifted fully into his monstrous form. The change was swift and smooth, the opposite of Malik’s. The beast he became was vicious, a thing of nightmares, but smaller than the winged legend it faced. The hulking dragon crouched low on his front haunches, a deep and haunting grumble slipping from his jaws full of sharp, white teeth.

Quick as a clap of thunder, the beast sprang at the dragon. They met in a flurry of wicked claws and sharp teeth, bodies clashing together only to spring apart and then meet once more.

The dragon was not easy on his feet. He wobbled, his steps unsure. Almost like… Goddess above, he moved like a hatchling, a newly born thing still finding its footing. Hesitant and unsteady. Yet still he fought.

They paid no mind to their surroundings. Tables and chairs were knocked aside or crushed. Malik’s dragon slammed into the sofa she’d been on minutes before, sending it sliding across the floor.

It narrowly missed Bronwyn. She gasped and leapt backward, then continued back one step after another until she felt the wall behind her.

A humorless laugh slipped free as she glanced at the bloodied blade in her hand. What good was it against monsters like these? It wasn’t enchanted. Not like the Gray Blade that Ceridwen had used to nullify King Rhion’s magic in the battle against him. Oh, to have that blade now…

But she didn’t. There was no point musing on wishes that could not aid them.

Outside, a sharp howl rang through the night. The eerie wail was loud enough to reach her over the chaos in the study—growls, thumps, the clatter of furniture as it moved or broke.

Through the windows, she spied light. Not the quick flash of lightning, though some of that momentarily brightened the distant sky, but orange spots that wavered like flame and seemed to be getting closer. Drystan?

A terrible roar shook the room.

Bronwyn’s attention snapped back to the battle. Malik had reared back, his tail and wings making a mess of the bookshelves and knocking art from the walls. Lines of crimson marred the shimmering black scales of his shoulder.

Damn it!

The dragon swiped, but the beast danced away, light on his paw-like feet. Malik may have him in size, but Griffith’s beast was faster and more experienced, and the bastard used that to his advantage.

She had to do something. Watching and waiting was agony.

Amid the shredded clothing that had been kicked to the side during the initial scuffle, Bronwyn spied Malik’s sheathed sword. It was longer than the dagger. It might give her the reach she needed to be useful.

Careful to stay back from the fighting, she made her way to it. She wasn’t used to holding more than a paintbrush; the sword was heavy. Pulling it from its sheath alone took more effort than it should. It didn’t help that her non-dominant arm still radiated with sharp pain. Fractured, perhaps.

It seemed a shame to leave the dagger behind, unused. Well, not used again. So, as the fight edged back her way, she gripped the dagger, waited for just the right moment, and hurled it with all her might at Lord Griffith.

The handle hit him in the side, and it clattered to the ground. He didn’t even seem to notice.

“Damn it!” Bronwyn lifted the sword. Time to make better use of it.

She’d ended up near the back of the room, a few steps away from the piano where he’d played that haunting music and drawn her into his web. The beasts traded clawed blows. Blood bloomed from lacerations on each of them now. Much of the furniture of the room was destroyed.

Lord Griffith leapt onto the desk and leaned back, ready to spring. With a swipe of a powerful arm, Malik sent the desk careening to the side. The beast tried to jump free but slipped, tumbling back—straight into a floor-to-ceiling window, which shattered in a rain of sparkling glass.

A pained howl ripped from the beast, but it was the other sounds from outside that snared Bronwyn’s attention and beckoned her closer. The distant clash of metal. A deep groan. A shout. A few more flickering lights—torches—illuminated bits of the grassy expanse beyond.

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